She’d try and try, and hell, maybe it would actually work. Maybe Brighton would find a community of other singer-songwriters, find places that loved having her onstage.
But it wouldn’t be for herself.
It’d be for Charlotte.
And she couldn’t let Brighton do it. She couldn’t watch them fall apart again, couldn’t let Brighton choose Charlotte over herself again. Because that’s what Brighton had always done, wasn’t it? Berklee, New York—she’d always put Charlotte first, because she was the only person in Charlotte’s life whowould, and they both knew it.
And where had all of that gotten them? Brighton had been miserable, pushed so far to the edge of her own needs that she’d literally snapped and done the thing neither of them ever imagined she’d do.
And Charlotte couldn’t do it again.
As Brighton finished the song, as the crowd leaped to its feet, shouting and clapping, Charlotte knew it was the right decision.
To let go.
She stood too, tears swelling for only a second before she wiped them away and a cool calm settled over her, like floating in deep, dark water. Peaceful. She slid her coat off the back of her chair and slipped it on, buttoning it slowly, methodically. She met Sloane’s eyes for a split second. Sloane wasn’t clapping and stood with her arms folded, a look that could only be described as hurt settling on her face, a million questions in her gaze.
Charlotte pulled her eyes away, then turned and started for the side entrance, slipping through the patrons like a ghost, everyone so enchanted with Brighton, they forgot all about her subject.
All the better,Charlotte thought.
She was nearly to the door, her phone ready to call a Lyft back to Nina’s, when a hand grabbed her elbow.
“Lola.”
Charlotte pressed her eyes closed, took one deep breath before turning to face Brighton.
“Hi,” Charlotte said.
Brighton frowned. “Hi? Where are you going?”
Charlotte managed a smile, a small, barely adequate bend to her lips. “That was lovely, Brighton. Really.”
Brighton shook her head. “Okay, what the hell are you doing? I thought—”
“This is over, Brighton.”
The words were soft, barely audible inside the bar, but they fell like a guillotine’s blade. Brighton said nothing.
“I’m glad we reconciled,” Charlotte said, releasing her wordsslowly, carefully, thinking on them before setting them free. “I am. But we both know this won’t work.”
“The hell we do,” Brighton said, her voice a whisper.
Charlotte forged ahead. “I’m in New York. And you belong in Nashville. We have different lives now. We’re not seventeen anymore. We’re not even twenty-three.”
“Lola. Don’t.”
“This was good, really,” Charlotte said, knotting her hands together so they didn’t shake. “So good. We’ve forgiven each other, and we can move forward, maybe even be friends. But I’m leaving for a month, and you—” She cut herself off. She couldn’t say any more. The more she talked, the more her emotions threatened to surge, and they both needed her to be strong right now. Logical.
Practical.
“Goodbye, Brighton,” she said. “And good luck.”
And with that, she turned and shoved the door open, then ran a block south before she even called for a Lyft, just in case Brighton—or even Sloane or Wes—tried to come after her.
But no one did.
And when Charlotte stopped under a streetlight, Winter Berry Bakery’s windows dark, the bookstore just closing up shop, she was alone. Just like she’d always been.
